


The Ventriloquist

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:50:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night at the pool, John Watson has an unsettling encounter with Jim Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ventriloquist

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another commission! I have had this mental image in my mind for a while so, here you are.

Sebastian Moran was taught from a buddy of his that beating someone with a rubber hose--a favourite of the Soviet police force--leaves no bruises or visible marks if done properly. He struck Watson twice, in rapid succession. A blow to the back and then a crippling blow to his bad shoulder, the one Moriarty had told him was just a big lump of scar-tissue. Watson reeled from the pain and crumpled in his hands, swiftly losing consciousness. All Moran had to do was pop the trunk and throw him in.

 

\---

 

Sebastian sits in the car and lights a cigarette, then clamps it in his teeth and pulls his phone out of his back pocket.

‘got em SM,’ he texts, idly sliding his tongue around the filter. Tastes like shit. Jim flushed his _real_ cigarettes earlier that morning when he bitched about his noisy routine. He waits for a moment, flicks his cigarette and the phone buzzes in his lap.

‘I hope you didn’t leave any marks. M’

Sebastian snorts and begins to respond when the phone buzzes again.

‘Don’t smoke in the car. Rental. M’

“Oh fuck off,” he stubs his cigarette out on the dashboard. He hopes Jim loses his ability to smell for all the chlorine.

Jim is waiting for him when he arrives in the pool parking lot.

His eyes shine under the lamp-posts, reflecting the light. Sebastian rolls down the window as he walks over and flashes Jim a grin. “Got a live one in there.” He motions to the back and pops the boot.

The joke seems to go right over Jim’s head. “You better hope he’s alive.” There’s an edge to his voice, his hands seem restless so he slides them into his pockets, balling them at first and then forcing them to lay flat against his thighs.

Sebastian can’t blame him—a sudden text in the dead of the night by a detective who just so happened to crack the code of a Chinese smuggling ring would make him nervous too. He’s a bit unnatural, in Sebastian’s opinion, this Sherlock Holmes.

He opens the car door, rolling his eyes. “He’s all right, didn’t even bruise him.” He slams the car door shut. Jim’s eyes never leave him. The hair on his arms is on end, he realizes. “Where do you want him?” Thankfully, Watson is still unconscious.

“The locker room,” he leans in just as Sebastian bends, hooking his arms under Watson’s. Sebastian freezes as he feels breath along his ear. “Bad boy, smoking in the rental,” he breathes deep and Sebastian shudders, “how can you smoke something that smells so bad?”

Sebastian clears his throat, “bit busy right now. We don’t want him to wake up.” He doesn’t dare look back at him, still feeling the eyes on his back. But when he turns, he finds that Jim is already gone—as if his eyes have left their mark.

He drags Watson’s dead weight to the pool’s locker room. The benches have been scooted back against the wall and the lockers and a chair sits in the middle of the room. He throws him down in it. “Jim?” Sebastian’s voice echos in the tile room. “No marks?”

“We won’t need to restrain him,” Jim’s voice answers, his bare feet slapping against the floor. In the limited lighting and with the acoustics of the room, Sebastian can’t tell where exactly his voice is coming from. It leads to the odd sensation that he’s surrounded.

 “He’s going to do whatever I say,” a shower turns on and Sebastian twitches, “just like you do, honey. Now go get my suit out of the car, I’d rather smell like smoke and chlorine than Thai food.”

In the time it takes Jim to shower, dress, and primp, Watson wakes up. He groans and stretches in the seat, eyes still closed as if taking inventory.

“Oh good,” Sebastian checks an expensive wristwatch, “he’s up.” Watson’s brow furrows, eyes still closed. “Sorry about that.” Sebastian nods, addressing him, “knew you weren’t about to follow a big bloke like me into a dark tinted rental, that would have been a bit mad.”

“Now, now, don’t get too friendly,” says a voice, far too close to his ear. “Why don’t you take your position with the others?” Sebastian’s mouth opens to disagree. “He won’t touch me, and I can assure you if he does,” his eyes flicker from Watson’s soft, wrinkled face to his rumpled shirt and down.

Sebastian is more than happy to leave.

John Watson opens his eyes, brain still addled (must have struck it going down) and gets his first glimpse of Jim Moriarty. He’s remarkably familiar, in fact, too familiar. It’s the plain face: patchy beard like a boy just going through puberty, a normal snubbed nose, dark hair and thin eyebrows. If John were to see this man on the tube, there’s no way he would stick in his mind. “Oh, yes. Look at you go. No wonder Sherly isn’t too terribly bored with you.” His ‘esses’ seem to drag. All his syllables seem to drag.

“What do you want with Sherlock?” John realizes that came out a lot more weakly than intended and clears his throat, lifting his chin and lowering it.

His eyes, those brown pits—nearly black—stick in John’s mind. They’re bright, like marbles, but behind them there’s emptiness. In the limited lighting of the locker-room, his pupils seem to swallow up all the light. John gets the nagging sensation that he’s seen them before on another person, on another person he knows, that he’s met.

“I want to meet him,” he responds, in a voice too soft and indistinct. John’s reminded of Molly Hooper, the mousy pathologist at Bart’s. Then it clicks, terrible and obvious.

John’s breathing quickens and he balls a fist on his knee. He doesn’t dare break eye contact. “You’ve got it then, _very_ good.” Jim claps his hands together and smiles but it’s not real, it’s nowhere near genuine.

At this moment, John Watson gets the sensation that he is staring down a monstrous snake. “Jim Moriarty,” Jim introduces himself, not offering John a hand to shake.

When John was younger, he would often go looking for grass snakes. But grass snakes are not dangerous and feed on frogs and toads. He was introduced to more dangerous types when he went abroad. In Afghanistan, you had to constantly be on the look-out for snakes and scorpions and spiders in your boots, in your helmets, and in your tents.

If Jim Moriarty was a snake, he was a cobra that was too often mistaken for a Dhaman.

“John Watson,” the war veteran responds stiffly, “why, exactly, do you want to get in touch with him?” What he doesn’t say is: ‘why is it that when people want to talk to Sherlock they end up kidnapping me?’ Sherlock says he’s an open book—very expressive—and he tries his hardest to be stoic and emotionless.

“Testy, Dr. Watson—I didn’t expect you would be so snippy. Is that what Sherlock _likes_ , a snippy flat-mate?” His huge eyes drink in John’s reaction.

“So what are you then? You’re not--. Are you really,” John pauses indecisively, “a fan?” Yes, John tells himself, just a huge fan in a very expensive suit with a big bloke bodyguard and a fancy rental. Definitely just a really big fan.

Jim turns around for a moment and fishes something out of his pocket. When he turns around his left hand is gloved in leather.

John swallows reflexively.

Jim leans in close and John fights the urge to slump in his chair to escape him. His breath is fresh, like he just brushed his teeth. In this proximity, John can see the beads of sweat that have broken out on his brow from the humidity. He smells sweet and salty and like stale cigarettes. John grits his teeth and his eyes shift to look over Jim’s shoulder for some sort of exit.

“Of a sort,” his eyes never leave John’s face. “You never did answer me, Johnny boy.” John licks his lips unconsciously as his eyes adjust. There is a crack of light just down the hall.

Jim’s hand darts out and grips John’s face and forces him to look into his eyes. “Pay attention, doctor.”

John finally reacts, throwing a right haymaker and jerking his head back, out of Jim’s grip. Jim lets out a surprised huff but John realizes his fist doesn’t come close to making contact. He’s suddenly met by blinding pain.

Jim presses his thumb into the ball-and-socket junction of his arm, right where that lump of scar-tissue lies. John jerks and opens his mouth to scream soundlessly as Jim presses in further. “Ooh, playful!” Jim sings sweetly but ends in a snarl. Jim presses his sweaty brow against his, his mouth open as if to catch John’s breaths. “If you leave so much as a scratch, I will give you double. Nod if you understand.”

John pants and his brow slides against Jim’s as he nods.

“Good boy,” Jim smiles, eyes gleaming. John holds his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. “Sherlock must _adore_ you, Johnny. Such a loyal dog, so good at taking orders.” He leans back and starts fishing around in his pocket, then pulls out a mobile. “Now keep being a good boy and I’ll give you a reward.” He fires off a text and looks back to John. “We’re going to play dress up, you and me.” Jim smirks and puts a finger to his lips.

Jim makes him stand just in front of the chair. “Put out your arms, love.” John does so, reluctantly, a bead of sweet rolling down his brow. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Unbutton your shirt.”

John’s eyes slide closed and he swallows whatever fear is looking to lodge itself in his throat. “Why?”

“Oh don’t do this,” Jim drawls, scuffing at the floor with his foot. “When I tell you to do something, you just do it.”

“What makes you think that I’ll just do what I’m told to?” John responds, something heavy in his gut. The silence Jim responds with is worse than any answer he could have been given. It’s the fact that he doesn’t know that makes him afraid—the man’s unstable. His fingers start to work on the buttons.

John pulls off his shirt, baring his scars. When Jim motions, he begins to turn in a semi-circle. “No, no, _no_ ,” Jim says softly, “no, don’t do that.”

John blinks.

“You’re doing that _thing_ , where you go into your head and pretend I’m not here.” Jim approaches him again. “No,” he licks his lips, “I’m here, Dr. Watson. Right up _there_ , and you’re not getting away.” He grabs him by the waist and spins him. “You act like I’m going to _hurt_ you, it’s like you’re _afraid_ of me.” Jim stops when John’s back is to him, he then trails a hand down his spine. “You keep flinching. Oh, Dr. Watson, you _wound_ me with your accusations.” Jim bends him over, moving John’s hands to hold the back of the chair.

The muscles of John’s stomach leap under Jim’s hands. “You are afraid;” he continues softly, dangerously, “look at how taut I can pull you.” John furrows his brow with the force of keeping his eyes shut as Jim presses against him from behind. They’re both still clothed but he feels more than a bit uncomfortable. “Does Sherlock do _this_ to you?” Jim asks, still pressed against him, “oh, not _this_. You’re reading it wrong. Boring, mundane, _ordinary_ John. I mean, does he _look_ at you—really look at you. Does he make you _move_?” It’s not a question, and if it was it was purely rhetorical. He backs away and John’s knees feel like jelly.

Jim runs a hand over the places where he was struck and gives an appraising hum. “I just wanted to see if he left a mark. I told him not to, you know, I could have you black and blue and,” Jim whistles like it’s supposed to mean something, “you know, marked all over. Sherlock wouldn’t be too happy about that, I imagine. Get your shirt back on.”

John shivers under Jim’s gaze. “He hasn’t ever seen you like this before, has he?” There’s something in that tone that strikes John as unhealthy. “Hurry up, get your shirt on. Then put on this vest, yes, be a dear for me and put on this parka afterwards.”

The semtex is heavy against John’s chest, but not near as dangerous as the light brush of Jim’s fingers around his ear. “I’m going to give you the signal and you’ll walk out and greet Sherlock.” He licks his teeth, “and you’re going to dress up in _my_ skin for a while, won’t that be fun? It will be just like you’re a puppet on _my_ string.”

John doesn’t quite see how any of this is a reward, other than maybe greeting Sherlock and being able to warn him (he hopes and prays that Sherlock knows Morse and that he knows to watch for a hostage). “Right. And then--.”

Jim’s phone buzzes. “The show begins.” Jim waggles his eyebrows and checks his watch. “You only have a few minutes left before he gets here, Johnny. Better make them count.” The criminal pulls out his phone and tugs off his glove with his teeth.

‘thats fucked up SM’

‘You’re one to talk. M’

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious about my rates, you can find them on my writing blog http://theghostsofeurope.tumblr.com !


End file.
